Chapter 30 FATHER, STRANGER, ENEMY
Eli's POV
Guns appear so fast my brain can’t keep up.
One second my father is standing there with that crooked grin and those familiar, awful eyes… and in the next, Julian’s arm sweeps back, the unmistakable click of metal slicing through the air.
My father mirrors him instantly.
Two guns raised.
Two monsters carved out of ice.
Pointing death at each other like it’s a well-rehearsed dance.
I suck in a sharp breath.
The air feels razor-thin.
Julian steps in front of me, shielding my body with his own, gun held low but unwavering. His stare is colder than the parking lot floor.
My father laughs.
A soft, amused exhale.
The kind that used to make my spine lock when I was a kid.
“Well, well,” he murmurs. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Julian.”
Julian’s jaw flexes.
His voice is a blade.
“Not a game,” he says. “I made you a promise, and I’m just stepping towards fulfilling that promise.”
The tension sharpens.
They look like they’ve been waiting for this moment for years; like the hatred between them is old, familiar, and unfinished.
My heart slams against my ribs.
My tongue feels numb.
I look between them, trying to find something, anything, that makes sense. A clue. A hint. A reason.
Nothing.
My voice finally forces its way out, tiny and strangled.
“…Dad?”
The second the word leaves my mouth, Julian snaps.
His free arm hooks around my waist, and he shoves me backward so fast my feet barely touch the ground. The car door open behind me, the driver yanking it wider as Julian throws me in.
“Stay down,” Julian commands.
My father clicks his tongue, turning to me. “Look at you,” he says, stepping closer, his gun shifting with idle confidence. “How did you get yourself into this mess?”
Julian angles his weapon up.
My father doesn’t acknowledge the weapon.
“You just had to be a liability to me,” he continues, voice dripping disappointment. “Always creating problems. Always dragging trouble behind you. Always making a mess.”
The words hit like fists.
Liability.
Problem.
Mess.
All the things he used to say when I cried too loudly… or asked too many questions… or existed in a way he didn’t like.
My throat tightens painfully.
Julian moves a fraction of an inch, so subtle most people wouldn’t catch it. But my father does. His brows lift, amused again.
“You really think,” he says, “that pointing that toy at me will change what’s coming?”
Julian’s voice drops to a deadly calm.
“You won’t get to take him.”
“Well,” my father replies, “you’ve done a fine job of that already, haven’t you? Holding him hostage, parading him around, provoking me—”
Julian fires.
A warning shot.
Deliberate.
Precise.
The bullet hits a concrete pillar inches from my father’s ear, showering dust across his coat.
My father freezes for a moment.
Then smiles.
“You always had terrible impulse control,” he says quietly. “Just like your mother.”
Julian’s hand twitched.
The driver stiffens.
Even I feel that one.
My chest tightens as the reality hits:
They know each other.
They’ve known each other for a long time.
Whatever this is… I’m the last to understand it.
“Close the door,” Julian orders.
I don’t know whether he’s talking to me or the driver. The driver reacts first, slamming the door shut so hard the frame rattles.
Through the tinted glass, I see Julian and my father still pointing guns at each other, mouths moving, but I can’t hear a damn thing. My breaths turn shallow. My hands shake uncontrollably.
The driver grips the wheel, barely breathing.
A second later—
The back door opens.
Julian climbs in, movements sharp and controlled, gun still in hand.
He slams the door.
“Go.”
The driver floors it.
The car lunges forward, tires screeching against concrete. The jolt sends me sliding toward the opposite side of the seat. Julian grabs my wrist and yanks me upright.
His touch is warm, harsh, grounding.
I can’t stop shaking.
My father disappears behind us, swallowed by darkness and pillars and distance, but it feels like he’s still here, still watching, still waiting.
My voice cracks.
“H–He’s alive.”
My hands press to my face. “He’s alive…”
Julian doesn’t look at me.
He stares straight ahead, breathing slow and even, as though almost being shot, almost shooting someone, is just another Tuesday night.
My chest feels hollow.
Cold and burning at the same time.
“I thought he died,” I whisper, choking on the words. “Everyone told me he died. There was a funeral. There was a—”
Julian cuts in, voice flat:
“He abandoned you.”
The car grows silent.
Pain presses in behind my ribs, sharp and suffocating.
Abandoned.
Not dead.
Not gone.
He left.
He left on purpose.
He chose to vanish and let me mourn him, let me believe he was gone forever.
Julian turned to look at me.
“You weren’t worth staying for,” he says quietly. “Not to him.”
The words destroy the last piece of denial I had clung to.
I swallow hard, and something inside me crumples.
The childhood grief I thought I’d buried cracks open like a fault line.
My father didn’t die.
He didn’t disappear.
He didn’t get taken.
He walked away.
And he never looked back.
And the first time I saw him after years of believing he's dead, he called me a liability.